Beautiful Day
by sychofrantic
Summary: Too many get away. SLASH.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

When you're a doctor you're always moving. You've seen the hallways blur past you so many times the blur is more recognisable than the hallway itself. You can't stop moving, you can't ever stop, because when doctors stop moving people die. Cancer spreads and bacteria multiplies. Children can choke on hesitation. Mothers and fathers' lungs can collapse under the weight of delay.

That's why I press my stethoscope to my patient's heart and ignore the thick tightness in my own chest that's been squeezing out coughs for the past few days.

"It's a bit erratic," I admit after trying to convince this dedicated hypochondriac that shortness of breath was normal after a five mile run for the past half hour, "I'll get Carla to give you the works and we'll see…"

"Yeah, yeah, just some time today, huh BJ?"

'It's JD,' I corrected mentally, "Hehyum," I cough, nodding vigorously, "Carla, could you…?"

"No problem, Bambi," she says affectionately, before turning to Mr Helmsly with disdain, "I take it you have time to pee in this?" I heard her say sarcastically as I palmed the door open.

"Hey, J.D," Turk says, joining me mid-stride.

"Yo," I reply coolly, just missing a gurney bashing into my hip.

"Got some news," he volunteers, "I've got you a date Friday night."

"What?" I say sharply.

"I. Got. You. A. Date. Friday. Night."

I swipe at a cough that escapes my throat angrily, "You had no right to do that."

The reason I'm so angry at Turk is because I'm gay. But the thing is, he doesn't know that. And because I haven't got the stones to tell him I'm gay, he tries to be a good friend by setting me up on straight dates. And that's why I'm mad. Because I'm afraid.

He holds out his hands defensively, "Woah man, chill. She's a nice girl…" Problem number one, "I used to go out with." Problem number two.

"Turk," I snap irritably, coughing, "I'm not," cough, "gonna go out with," cough, cough, "some chick you…" cough!

He rubs my back affectionately, even though less than a second ago I was biting his head off. Sometimes I think I'm dumb not telling Turk, because if there was anyone who wouldn't judge me, it'd be him. He stuck by me during Babysitter's club phase, my George Michael phase and my Star Wars phase… Okay, so that phase was still pretty damn phasey, but the point is, Turk stood by me all this time, I should be able to tell him anything.

I look at him and he's smiling slightly as he delivers the final pat to my back, and fear grips my throat. I can't do it. Not if it's a possible possibility that it could end this. No way.

"I'm," I say hoarsely, "I'm not interested right now. Sorry."

"Don't sweat it, man," he says carefully, walking backwards and pointing a firm finger at me, "But **we** are going out tonight."

I swallow and nod, "Yeah."

These are the best days. When it's morning and you don't hate yourself quite yet. You can still smile without having to force it and coffee burning your tongue doesn't make you let out a string of curses that'd make my Aunt Muriel blush. And that lady was into leather.

I shudder as the faint strains of 'Beautiful Day' whisper at the back of my mind and I breathe in deeply and despite the medicinal alcohol that burns my nostrils, and the stabbing sensation in my sternum and the cough that makes my throat sing in pain, I smile. I may be a cowardly faggot, but I'm here. And I'm helping. And that's more than I can say for most.

--

When you're a doctor, you look at injury from a large observation tank. You see it, right there in front of you every day but you feel to utterly separate from it you don't think, you know for a fact that it can't touch you. You feel invincible because you know you are. Which, as Doctor Cox likes to say, is total bullshit.

"Listen Nancy," he says, interrupting my optimistic yet naïve spiel, "I know you enjoy putting me up on some kind of pedestal which, yes, I can understand entirely but to put the collective up on one is well, stupid. And since you're stupid the two of you mesh like that pink ensemble you want to get that will go SO well with your new shoes that you just can't stand it. Oh god, you can't stand it! Should you buy it, shouldn't you buy it, should you, shouldn't you and this goes on and on until you do get it and realise, gasp, that it doesn't fit quite right and here's the funny part." He pauses to take a deep breath, "We are not immune. We aren't special. We think we are and then what happens? It doesn't fit. We're humans, newbie, and the sooner you get that through that painfully thick head of yours the better."

Sometimes I forget that Dr Cox doesn't see life the way I do. That he hates the way I see life and pretty much everything I stand for, yet he wants me to succeed so much it kills him. He wants to push and push until I'm on the floor, face pressed against it and begging…

I adjust my scrubs and blush, but he doesn't notice. Or he chooses not to.

Either way, he wants me to become the prodigal, his son, something of a reflection of him so he can point at me and say 'See that? I made that.' Because he feels like he needs something to redeem the lack of anything solid he has in his own life. If he ever discovered the phrase 'you've got to be cruel to be kind' he would embrace it like a long-lost brother.

"I don't know," I reply, before coughing, "I think we need arrogance like that to help us not fear our patients. We need to know that at any second we won't drop down dead."

At that moment, an elderly Mr Kibbles speeds past me on his motorised wheel-chair, bumping me in the hip and sending me backwards into Doctor Cox's arms like some kind of bad romantic comedy starring Kate Hudson, except he hold me close for a mere five seconds before promptly dropping me at his feet.

He says something snide, but I'm not paying attention. My head is spinning, and coupled with the congestion in my chest I'm having trouble breathing. Being a doctor teaches you to be calm in moments like these. Relax your muscles, if they're tight they could cause spasm or shrink around your airway. Don't try talk, just devote all your energy to breathing. Just breathe.

He's over me now, tilting my head back and opening my mouth. Finally I can breathe properly, and the air wheezes out. I open my eyes.

Dr Cox looks guilty, and his hands rest reassuringly on the sides of my face, warm and leathery. I breathe and try not to revel in this too much.

"You all right there, newbie?" he whispers, and I feel his fingers curl around my jaw bone.

'Don't revel, don't revel, don't revel, don't revel, don't revel, don't revel, don't revel, don't revel…'

"I have a cough," I say quietly, because my voice won't work. Coughs do that to you.

He nods, eyes skimming over my face, "Go home."

I nod back, helpless, "Okay."

--

When you're a doctor, you know when something's wrong when it is. Like when Dr Cox and I both saw Ben's hand that wouldn't stop bleeding, or when I was giving head to a guy I used to go out with, Casey, and felt an abnormal swelling in his right ball. He had testicular cancer and wouldn't get surgery, no matter how much I begged him. He's dead now. So is Ben. Those two cases hold no significance to me, however, as I lay in my own sweat even though I'm shivering wildly with the sheets kicked off long ago. The ache in my chest has spread over my torso like a shield and sleep envelopes me as often as it escapes me. I know this isn't right. I know I should get up, or crawl up to the phone and call someone. Anyone. But that damn superiority complex I have stops me. Plus, I keep having mini-dreams of getting up and being attacked by David Cassidy with a huge plastic hammer. So I just lay here.

Ten more minutes and I'll phone someone.

Ten more minutes.

Turk finds me ten hours later, and I'm not breathing.

Sometimes, when you're a doctor, you don't know that's wrong with you and because you're a doctor, it's ten times more terrifying because if you don't know, it could be anything. It could be yet another cold or it could be lung cancer.

For me, it's AIDS.

Yeah, I was shocked too.

"You have Progressive multifocal leukoencephalopathy and wasting syndrome caused by HIV infection… you also have evidence of latent candidiasis of your lungs."

"AIDS," I said simply. Because yeah, I know it. I can feel it inside me now, despite all the drugs and the hiss of the respirator beside me. I can feel something eating at my insides.

And not because I'm a doctor. I just know.

--

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2.

I'm desperate that no-one else should know. I'd rather them buried in ignorant bliss while I waste away to nothing alone than to have them come near me and see what I am. What I hid from them for so long that became something dire.

It was all over the hospital within a day of me hearing the news. Surprisingly, the first to visit was Dr Kelso.

"How're you doing, sport?" he asked firmly. I had one hand over my face, because rashes surrounded my eyes and I knew I looked like crap. The thing I wanted least was at this juncture to not burden anyone emotionally. Second to being pitied. But Kelso just made small talk, and it was so ordinary, so blessedly mediocre that tears just fell and made my rash burn like hellfire.

"Ow," I whispered, "Ow…"

He passed me something cool and soft which I pressed to my eyes and instantly remedied the sting. I sighed 'thank you', which he said nothing to, instead opting to return to the topic, which were idiotic interns. I think I laughed at that a few times, 'cause it was all so true.

Elliot came next. I only knew it was her when she spoke, as a mask was now attached to my face to keep my eyes from swelling shut while they experimented with various treatments on the rash.

"You should've said something."

I decided not to reply to that.

"You had a cold for months and you didn't say one thing. You should have gone to someone. God knows we have enough patients that imagine having what you have."

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

"Why didn't you say anything?" she said, her voice breaking, "Why didn't you do anything?"

"I didn't know," I say in a voice that crumbles.

"What a load of hooey! You knew, of course you knew, you…" She broke off, sobbing slightly. I hear her soft steps advancing on me and my body accommodates her as she climbs all over me, "Oh," she whispers, kissing my arm, "Oh no…" She kisses my other arm and I feel her tears on the crook of my elbow before her head rests on my stomach, "What are we gonna do now JD? It's always you and me. What are we gonna do?"

That partially incoherent sentence could only make sense to me and Elliot, and I like it that way. I think back to a time where I thought Elliot was the one. Elliot was the one who could turn me into something my dad, my brother, my mentor (slash crush, which isn't that wrong when you think about it) and my best friend could be proud of. She smelled like sweat and warm dirt and cookies. I brought her fragrant wrist up to my nose and sighed into it before inhaling.

"Oh, JD," she weeps, "I can't do it. Can you do it? I can't…"

"Don't worry," I whisper, "I can't do it either."

She relaxes and just cries, long and hard into my stomach.

Others come. Carla comes and makes excuses for Turk which makes me scream into the pillow later that night. Her hands are softer than I thought they would be and they provide me with nothing but comfort. She's careful to keep her sobs quiet and talking to a minimum.

The hospital crowd comes. Laverne brings me flowers and surprisingly, so does Todd, who combs his hand through my hair and whispers 'I wish I was as brave as you', which makes me feel like a million dollars. Interns I taught come. Jordan and Danni visit with Jack, and Jordan doesn't bother making excuses for Doctor Cox, which makes me scream harder in to my pillow later that night. Old patients, old lovers who try make light of the situation by saying things like 'I knew you were gay'. Even the janitor comes.

He shuffles about the room, cleaning, and I don't know it's him until he clears his throat.

"Janitor?"

He clears his throat again, "It's Steve."

"What?"

Pause. "Steve. My name is Steve, JD."

He said nothing and continued to clean, and for some reason, I felt so much better.

It take a while, too long with too many nights screaming before Turk comes.

"You're gay?"

"Yes," I say instantly.

"How long?"

"As long as I can remember."

There was silence before I felt him approach me, "Just let me get one thing clear: you've never… got a hard on for brown bear, have you?"

I laughed so hard I almost had a cardiac arrest. Literally. Turk had to resuscitate me. If I'd wanted anything, he would have given it to me 'cause he felt so damn guilty after that. But I didn't want anything, not after he hugged me so close and promised not to be a dick anymore.

"Hello, Jennifer."

Well, I did want one thing.

At that moment, apart from the obvious, I wanted the mask to still be on my face. They took it off when they found a way to get rid of the swelling, but the rash has spread in the dark, moist conditions and sores dripped down my face like fat, peanut shell tears. My hands cupped over my face was the only thing that protected everyone from disgust and me from… other things.

"Hey Dr Cox," I say, and it's so painfully inadequate I feel a bit like myself again.

He's pacing and I want so much to look at him. My hands won't budge.

He mumbles something and I wait for him to repeat it, but he doesn't so I clear my throat and… "Wh…"

"Fuck you, Princess. Fuck. You."

I'm speechless for only two moments before all I become is resigned. I was surprised when it happened with my father, when he couldn't provide me with any real comfort. When he punched me in the goddamn face. I was still surprised when my brother became a vegetable and Doctor Cox went on a two-week vacation while I debated on whether or not to pull the plug (I did).

But now, now I just didn't have the energy. I'm in my fucking deathbed and shoot me, but I just don't care. He can say what he likes, I'm through giving a damn.

"I don't know why I was surprised for a second. If you want to go for a round of 'Make JD Feel Like Crap' your welcome to it, except could you wait till they wheel my corpse outta here? Cause I…"

He ripped my hands away from my face and I screamed. He screamed louder.

"Don't say that to me!"

I was pulling desperately at my hands, all composure lost. He wasn't supposed to see this. I wept and begged 'please, please, please,' but he wouldn't let go.

"Get away!" I sobbed, turning my face, "Get away from me!"

"I said DON'T!"

I froze, my eyes opened wide so see tears in his. I blinked, my rash momentarily forgotten.

"Fuck you," he repeated quietly, "You ruined everything. I was finally… I didn't know, god dammit…"

"What are you saying?"

He laughed a little, grip on me softening, "I wish you'd told me."

I rolled my eyes, "Why, so you could have a new repertoire for torturing me?"

"No," he patronised, "So I could tell you I love you."

It was the first time he'd gotten the meaning of the word 'punchline'. I felt like I'd been punched in the stomach.

"How dare you?" I breathed, "How can you say these things to me?"

"Newbie…"

"JD!" I said, voice rasing an octave with every syllable, "My name is JD! The dumb little gay kid who was pathetic enough to have a crush on the most heartless, fucking—"

He pressed a kiss my chalky mouth, thumbs digging into the hollows of my cheekbones.

"JD, there's been a misunderstanding. Obviously somewhere along the way you took my tone to heart which is to be expected because well, you're self-centred and have trouble seeing past your own nose. By 'so I could tell you I love you' I meant 'I love you and always have but was too chickenshit to say a damn thing, and now you're dying and I can't stop wondering if I'd said anything…'" He choked and kissed me again. I wanted, I wanted so badly to kiss him back. But I couldn't risk it, not with this thing eating me from the inside out.

"I know," he said into my mouth, and he did because he pulled away. Tears burned down my face, but it was nothing compared to the burning under my ribcage where I knew my heart had to be. Because I'm a doctor.

And because I'm pretty sure I just felt it shatter.

--

TBC


	3. Epilogue

Epilogue

_"Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me…"_

Whoever came up with that one had to be out of their fucking minds. 'Valley of the Shadow of Death'? Sounds like some stupid video game where kids go around hacking zombies to pieces.

I sucked on the cigarette fervently, as if doing so would bring me the secrets of the universe.

I wasn't close enough to John to call him JD, as all his friends called him in their eulogies. I was just one of his many cousins who played with him when we were kids. I had the biggest crush on him, and I would always swoon when he called me Emmy.

Turns out he's gay though. I can see his boyfriend, hand clutched to his mouth and face whiter than a sheet. He stood aside from everyone, almost as if he was forced because he looked like he wanted to be right up close. He looked like he wanted to be in the coffin with John. But nobody was forcing him away, they were all just wrapped up in their own private pains, looking to the open grave (but not open coffin, thank God. He'd looked like a skeleton by the time they'd pronounced him) for solace but finding only a big wooden box.

I'd thought the black guy was his boyfriend at first. He stood so close he almost toppled in the grave and hadn't stopped crying since he arrived. But I saw a woman with a wedding ring on her finger pull him back from the edge and hold him.

No one told me that the other guy was his boyfriend. Despite being a helluva lot older with a woman beside him holding a small child, I just knew, ya know? I saw it. He looked like he was piling piece upon piece of himself into that grave. And he had to be the only one not crying. Including myself.

As everyone left, a toed out my cigarette into the dirt as, per the request of the deceased, 'Beautiful Day' by U2 played uproariously. Black Guy fell into the dirt a few feet away from my cigarette, dragging his wife down with him. He moaned and she gripped onto him tighter than I'd ever seen anyone grip onto anything. I watched with morbid curiosity fir a few moments before my eyes flickered up and caught on the boyfriend.

He watched people pile on the dirt, onto his lover, and I wondered how he stopped himself from pushing those people away, from screaming at the top of his lungs that would even offend my mother, Muriel (and trust me, that lady was into leather). And then he looked up, eyes directly on me.

I gasped at what I saw there. Emptiness, numbness, every cliché you could imagine except they weren't cliché, not when this man was feeling them in a way that was entirely his own.

I hesitated, then waved stupidly.

He grinned so hard his lips rolled back into his gums and two tears slipped down the rough contours of his face.

Then he waved back.

The END.


End file.
